


Whistling Away The Dark

by DixieDale



Category: Garrison's Gorillas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 10:12:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15046634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: He'd heard the term 'whistling away the dark'.  For him, it was colors that drove away the dark, but what do you do when the nighttime closed in, when you were surrounded by shadows?  On guard duty on a dark night in enemy territory, Chief ponders that, and comes to a conclusion.





	Whistling Away The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> From wartime years.
> 
> Title from Henry Mancini's song, 'Whistling Away The Dark'. Lyrics at the end.

Dark, the world around him had been dark for so very long he'd almost forgotten what it looked like otherwise. Oh, sometimes, if he was out in the open, where he could smell the pre-dawn, could watch the sun come up, he'd remember, and the old words would flow from his throat, just like the old men of the tribe had taught him, and he would feel the light, the spirit fill him again. But often, far too often, there had been walls, walls and bars between him and the outside, and the darkness settled into his spirit, as if the light simply didn't exist anymore. Sometimes he was afraid he would forget the words. Worse, sometimes he was afraid he'd only imagined the words, that they and those who had taught them had never existed anywhere except in his barren heart.

The colors that once had caught his eye, pleased his heart as a young child, they had vanished as well. The terra cottas and browns, the greens and blues, even the yellows and black, they all had a dark shadow over them, turning them muddy, muddy like the shadows inside him.

Til it started to change. Til the first glimpse of clear green eyes caught his attention, green like the fresh growth when that brief period of rain hit in the late winter and early spring. It was as if that opened a crack in the walls around him. When the one with the green eyes offered him a chance to go with him, he agreed without hesitation. Even that brief touch of color had made him remember, and he knew if he had even just that, if this one could help him remember, he could perhaps survive, could maybe learn to breathe again.

Once at that big ugly house in England, other colors were added, pale hazy blue - not the harsh blue of a summer sky, but the hushed blue of the sky's reflection in a hidden pool deep in the mountains, muted by the rocks surrounding it. There were browns, too, of various shades, and black and yellows, from pale to a richer gold. Sometimes, in the extreme paleness of his blue-eyed companion, he'd see the fourth of the sacred colors - so that the green, and yellow and black and white of the Sacred Mountains were together, forming a foundation, with the browns reminding him of the desert he sometimes longed for in his dreams. And while it was not home, did not, indeed could not, return him to that home, the belonging he could faintly remember, it was so much more than he'd had in so very long, and his spirit started to come forth again. 

They hadn't mocked him, these who were gradually becoming important to him, perhaps brothers-in-spirit, though he had not put that into words. They accepted his claiming that spot at any window they came across, though they had their own memories of the darkness, the shutting out of the light and surely had their own need for light and a view of the sky and the trees. They willingly gave up the chance of easing those memories so that he might have what he needed so badly. And they didn't mock him, not seriously anyway, for his heritage, for his trying to cling to what shreds remained to him. No, Goniff calling him 'Chiefy' didn't count as mockery; it was like a warm hand on his shoulder to hear that from the little Cockney. Even Casino's more brusque 'Indian' wasn't meant as a slur; he'd learned early on the safecracker gave nicknames to anyone he valued, whether it was 'Warden' for Garrison, or 'Beautiful' for Actor, or even that 'dumb Limey' he had christened their resident pickpocket with.

In the daytime, when he could see the colors that now surrounded him, he found peace. It was in the nighttime that he found it more difficult. Especially nights like this. They were deep behind enemy lines, every moment likely to bring discovery, perhaps death. On nights like this, there were no colors, only darkness, only shadows.

On nights like these, standing guard, he shifts through the shadows surrounding him, letting the memory of colors stand in for the reality. There, that shadow over there, stretched out on the ground, that was the Warden, eyes of a clear light emerald green, a green that warmed him, hair yellow gold, two of the colors of the Sacred Mountains. Over on the other side, huddled in that small ball, there was the blue and the yellow and the white, the color of the sky and a repeat of two of the colors of the Sacred Mountains in one small, ever surprising form. Black and brown-black, their tall arrogant con man close to that outcropping of rocks over there, completing the four Sacred Colors. His eyes move to that more distant figure, the one standing guard on the far side of their shelter. Browns, rich and warm and drawing him like the mountains of home; drawing him, promising shelter and support and comfort. Perhaps no one not of the desert and the surrounding mountains would have made that association, but he WAS of the desert and the mountains, and those browns, they whispered of 'home' and so much more.

He might never have more, but even that whisper was a gift, one that warmed and comforted him, steadied him, though few would have thought he needed steadying. But those who thought that didn't know, didn't see the doubts, the uncertainties, the need.

Deep in the darkness he allowed himself a smile he wouldn't have let escape in the daylight, knowing how Casino's jaw would drop if he knew any of that. Well, Casino DIDN'T know, most likely never would, but right now that wasn't important.

Now, in the shadows, in the darkness, he felt the colors fill him, felt his spirit safe within him, and he was content. He'd heard the term, 'whistling away the dark', and understood that. But for him, it was the colors that drove away the dark, and the colors were with him now, and for that he sent thanks winging its way into the darkness while he awaited the dawn.

***  
Lyrics from 'Whistling Away The Dark' - I make no claim on these, obviously, but they inspired this story.

'Often I think this sad old world is whistling in the dark.  
Just like a child, who, late from school, walks bravely home through the park.'

'To keep their spirits soaring,  
And keep the night at bay.  
Neither quite knowing which way they are going,  
They sing the shadows away.'

'Often I think my poor old heart has given up for good,  
Then I see a brand new face,  
I glimpse some new neighborhood.'

'So walk me back home, my darling,  
Tell me dreams really come true.  
Whistling, whistling,  
Here in the dark with you.'  
Henry Mancini


End file.
